


Lessons for Smart Mouths

by GooberGamer



Category: Breach: The Archangel Job
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooberGamer/pseuds/GooberGamer
Summary: They’re just these little jokes, a bit of sass with the other Archangels. It got the tentative, and later eager, camaraderie going. But then there’s Michael.“You are on thin ice, Raphael. Remember who your Michael is here and what that means, or I will remind you.”
Relationships: Michael/Raphael (Breach: The Archangel Job)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Lessons for Smart Mouths

They’re just these little jokes, a bit of sass with the other Archangels. You started making them after a couple weeks for everyone to warm up to you, once everyone eased in and stopped worrying about any runners or bullets in the back. It got the tentative, and later eager, camaraderie going. Mouse is too earnest to keep up, but he’s at least learned by now to recognize your sarcasm for what it is. Justin and Hayne can match you toe-to-toe.

But then there’s Michael. His occasional presence in the Mill is the quiet _crack_ of a whip; the crewmembers stand taller, talk more seriously about the mission. All to impress their volatile leader.

You can't say you salute so formally. There's _esprit de corps_ and then there's brown nosing the leadership. Michael is just as human as anyone else on the crew, and no one is immune to your teasing.

When Michael comes to take over for Gabriel in coordinating a heist, spending a rare few consecutive days at the Mill, he gives you exactly one day to make your playful comments, and then gives you exactly one warning. _“You are on thin ice, Raphael. Remember who your Michael is here and what that means, or I will remind you.”_

Maybe it’s a slip. Maybe you just can't help touching the hot stove to see if it'll burn you a second time. Either way, when you give a little lip the next afternoon while he's addressing you and your crew, it doesn't escape his notice. You see the smallest twitch of his neck, an incremental turn of his face in your direction, and you know that you’re in trouble. You grimace a little, glancing down, looking back up, and he returns his attention to the room. Silent apology acknowledged, if not accepted.

It’s past dusk when you, Hayne, Carly, and Justin return from a preparatory run to Greg’s. You’re sorting your supplies when Michael calls out to you from the doorway of his office. “Raphael, I have blueprints for the building you’re casing. Come grab the ones you need.”

You hadn’t realized any of the blueprints in the Mill were kept outside of Gabriel’s office, but he’s already turning away as you follow him inside. He nods to the larger cabinet behind his desk, and you pass him on your way to open it.

He moves so quickly that your brain tells you the story of what happened only after you’ve been slammed face-down on the desk. One of his hands on the nape of your neck, one on the small of your back working in tandem. Your palms flattened to the wood to cushion your fall, but he’s still knocked the wind out of you. In your daze, he doesn’t take any sweet time, the hand on your back moving down to your waistband, yanking your pants down to your thighs in one fell swoop.

You immediately flush, eyes flicking wildly to the door. It’s not the first time you two have done something like this, recognizing heat and hunger in each other early on, but you had been entirely alone at the Mill, and the door had been firmly shut against any who might wander in after hours. Now, it hangs open a dangerous few inches. Straining your ears, you can hear the voices of your crewmates on the other side, divvying out guns and blocks of C4 for the heist.

“Michael,” you hiss, sliding your hands down to bat at his own and pull up your pants, “not now! There’s too many people here today!”

In an instant, his grip on your neck moves to capture your wrists against the desktop again. The hand that was taking off your clothes slaps your ass once for good measure, the sharp _smack_ loud as gunfire in the office. Before you can recover from swallowing your yelp at the sting, his palm glides over your skin to settle at the juncture of your thighs. You swallow again, your throat clicking drily.

“It’s interesting how you think you’re in a position to give orders,” he says in a nearly conversational tone, giving a wandering feel between your legs.

Your breath stutters, eyes swinging between the open door and the blurred table pressed against your cheek. The arm pinning you blocks your line of sight from his. “Michael—“

“Raphael, do you know why you’re here?” He asks, as if he hasn’t heard you.

“I-I don—” Suddenly, he's pressing a finger, two fingers into you, cutting you off with a choked gasp. He leans over you on the glossed wood and meets you face-to-face, his eyes behind the mask’s protective glass showing nothing but cold amusement.

“If you're going to try to cut me down to size in front of the crew, I just might do the same to you.”

He's sinking his fingers into you with fervor now, working you steadily toward orgasm. You’ve locked sights onto the door again with a heavy sense of dread, and worse, the slowly growing burn of arousal. If someone walks in, it will be immediately obvious what you're doing, what's being done to you, and the thought sends twin licks of shame and warmth through your gut.

Your stomach swiftly drops when you hear voices come closer, Justin and...Hayne? Carly? Still a murmur outside, but growing louder as they walk closer and Mike's not stopping; if anything he's working you harder. A third finger slips into you and he gives a smug hum when you can't help the stifled groan that escapes, toes curling, fingernails digging into wood—

The voices are gone by the time the stars leave your eyes. You don’t know if they walked away before they could spy you both, or if they saw what was happening behind the door and fled. As Mike finishes, only stopping when you make weak sounds in protest as you grow too sensitive, you can't find it in yourself to care.

He chuckles behind you, and you give him a little glance over your shoulder. “Think you'll be able to watch that smart mouth of yours now, Raphael?” 

As he pulls out, chuckling again at the way you groan and clench uselessly after his fingers, you ponder. You feel too empty now, and there's still a feeble flush trying to rise to your cheeks when you face the doorway, embarrassment and arousal warring, feeding into each other...

“Yes, Michael.” You say. Maybe you'll forget. Maybe you just can't help but touch that stove one more time, just to see if it's still hot.


End file.
